The French Photograph
by Bellairian
Summary: A WWI photograph of Jack surfaces. This story was inspired by an incredible cache of WWI-era glass plate negatives taken by the Thuillier family of Vignacourt, France.
1. Lost Diggers

_This is a standalone story that was inspired by an incredible cache of WWI-era glass plate negatives taken by the Thuillier family of Vignacourt, France. The negatives are of British, French, Australian, US, and Indian soldiers, Chinese labor corps, and French civilians. You can find out more about the photos exhibited as 'Remember Me: The Lost Diggers of Vignacourt' at the Australian War Memorial web site._

-ooo-

_Present day_

Elizabeth pondered the photo albums and the box of keepsakes on her desk and made an executive decision.

Her daughter Jacqueline needed to become the caretaker of the family hoard, whether she wanted to or not. And it needed to happen soon, while Elizabeth could still remember all the dates and facts and faces.

...

Jacqueline stumbled over the large envelope the postman left on her front porch. It was too big to fit in the letterbox, so he left it leaning against the wall and it must have fallen over during the day. Cursing and muttering under her breath, she grabbed the bulky envelope, shoved it under her arm, and attempted to unlock her front door, get her two children in the house, and close the door firmly before the dog made a beeline for freedom. Chasing the four-legged member of the family through the neighborhood was not on tonight's agenda.

Once in the house, Jacqueline instructed her offspring to go through their backpacks and find any school forms she needed to sign, graded papers she needed to review, and anything else that she needed to know about before they repeated the cycle tomorrow.

She then dumped the armload of her possessions on her desk – keys, sunglasses, humongous handbag, mail, and the envelope she had nearly tripped over. Her book order. She didn't have the time or the energy to deal with it right now. Dinner needed to be made. Homework needed to be done. Baths needed to be taken. Stories needed to be read. Her husband deserved at least cursory attention when he got home. Until all of those things were done, her time was not her own.

She looked through the detritus the children left on the kitchen table for her. Her daughter had a reminder for a school excursion tomorrow. Oh lord. She'd forgotten she agreed to be one of the parent chaperones – so of course she'd forgotten to tell her boss she needed to take the afternoon off. Merde. High school French does have its uses she thought as she sent a text to her boss and hoped he would understand. She needed the afternoon off.

...

Oh. My. God. Jacqueline thought. I will never, ever, agree to be a parent chaperone again. It's hard enough to keep my own children acting civilized in public. Thirty of them? Impossible.

Luckily the teacher had the patience of a saint and plenty of experience managing a small horde of exuberant eight year-olds who had little to no interest in whatever the outing was about. Jacqueline and the other mother looked at each other and then at the teacher. "They don't get paid nearly enough," Jacqueline said to the other mother. Fortunately all the two of them needed to do was bring up the rear and make sure any stragglers caught up with the group.

This was a perfect time to check her email. Only a couple of new ones since she last checked an hour ago and all of them could wait. Thank heavens for small favors. She looked up from her phone and into the weary eyes of a soldier from the Great War. She scanned the words on the wall – Lost Diggers, Cache, Photographs, Thuillier, Barn, France, Vignacourt and more words that didn't really register. But a monitor registered. Something mindless to do while the teacher chattered away and the children were relatively still.

She tapped the screen and it came alive with a much smaller version of the large soldier and some instructions she didn't read and she tapped the screen again, not knowing what would come next. Another photograph of another soldier. And another and another and another as she tapped and tapped and tapped. All of these men were someone's son, father, grandfather, great-grandfather. They all needed to be identified. It was nothing to do with her. She knew who her great-grandfather was, what he looked like. But she kept tapping, the act becoming automatic, tapping faster and faster, not really paying any attention to the images flashing past on the screen.

Wait. Hadn't she seen a picture of her great-grandfather that looked a lot like these? A very young version of her great-grandfather? She grew up looking at a photograph of an older version of him every day of her life. It was on her mother's family wall of fame, as she jokingly called it. She forwarded the link in a text and pressed Send. Then she pressed Call.

"Mum? Yes, I'm fine. Yes, the kids are fine. Yes, I know it's the middle of the day. Everyone is fine. Don't you have a picture of your grandfather Jack from the Great War? Yes. Jack. I'm chaperoning an outing and … never mind, it's too hard to explain in a hurry. I've already sent you a text with a link. Go look at it and I'll ring you tonight."

...

Elizabeth knew exactly which photograph Jacqueline was asking about. She could picture it perfectly in her mind. The uniformed young man in the photograph was looking straight at the photographer, serious but not stern, hands clasped in front of him. Elizabeth had seen that same expression hundreds of times in her life. It was the face of someone who carefully watched what was going on around him, just in case something required his attention.

Jack was so young in the photograph – not heartbreakingly young like many of the other photographs she'd clicked through – but far younger than she'd ever seen him. In the photo he must have been in his early twenties, married to Rosie Sanderson, full of hope he would return to her unscathed. His whole life was ahead of him: children, rising through the ranks of the Victorian Police Force, then grandchildren. Knowing him, it would have been a quiet life well-lived.

His life didn't turn out quite as planned of course, and Elizabeth felt a tremor of sadness for his dashed dreams. But she was grateful they had been dashed because it meant he was part of her life, filling the void left when her own father had not come back from the next war.

The problem was Elizabeth had no idea where the photograph was.

The photographs she had began a couple of years after her mother Jane first met Jack on the train to Ballarat. He was already in his late thirties then, already a Detective Inspector.

Elizabeth's earliest memory of her grandfather was of him scooping her up after she'd fallen on the front path. She was running to greet him as he came home from the station. She wasn't hurt but the indignity of the fall took her by surprise. He'd made a show of examining her knees, professing profound relief she was barely scraped, carefully and gently wiping away her tears with his handkerchief. Then he'd lifted her chin with one finger and asked "Better?" his blue eyes searching hers until she'd answered with a pouty nod, still shaken, still indignant. He distracted her from her pout by asking which book they were going to read next. He deposited her in her grandmother's arms while he took off his overcoat and his hat, then reclaimed her and carried her to his study where they sat down in his armchair.

Elizabeth got up from her computer and gathered the albums and the box holding everything else, needing to see the moment. She sat down on the couch and called to Jacqueline to join her. She could see a flash of impatience on her daughter's face but she ignored it. Jacqueline didn't realize it yet but this was the most important thing they were going to do today.

She flipped past the first day of school photos, school plays, piano recitals, graduation from high school. Her life's academic milestones, carefully recorded, until she came to the rest of the photographs, the really important ones, where the other side of her life, the loving side, was also carefully recorded.

Here it was. She was on Jack's lap, leaning into the curve of his arm around her, her thumb firmly in her mouth. He had a book of nursery rhymes in his hands and she was looking up to him as he read to her. Another photo, taken few minutes later, with Phryne, her grandmother, standing behind the chair, her arms enveloping them, both of them leaning into her as she took a turn reading a rhyme. Elizabeth could still feel her grandfather's voice and smell her grandmother's perfume.

Elizabeth's mother Jane always had her camera ready, always had fresh film close at hand. Jane had received a camera of her own one Christmas when she was a teenager and it became her constant companion. She must have taken dozens of pictures every month and developed them herself in Phryne's darkroom. Only a very few were staged; most were candid shots of Elizabeth with her grandparents. It was almost as though Jane was intent on recording her daughter's existence, probably because she had nothing of her own childhood until she became Phryne's ward. The same was true for Phryne; she had only a couple of childhood photos and a sketch of her sister Janey and a watercolor of the two of them. Elizabeth loved to hear about the pirate girls of Collingwood sailing off to adventure in their bathtub boat. At the end of each voyage her grandmother always included the story of how the picture came to be.

Where was the album with the photographs of her mother Jane? Ah. That's right. It was so small it was in the box. She opened the box and pulled out the small album. The photographs of her mother were even fewer and farther between after Jane went off to university. Here Jane was in cap and gown, holding her rolled vellum aloft, a look of triumph on her face. Here she was on her wedding day, her new husband in his Air Force uniform, the two of them gazing into each other's eyes, thinking their whole lives were ahead of them. And Jane with Elizabeth, whom he never saw, her newborn eyes tightly shut, the day Jack Robinson became the de facto father to another daughter.

Jacqueline was pulling things from the box while her mother talked and described the scenes in each photograph. She found an orchid and a sweet pea carefully pressed between tissue and cardboard and looked at her mother quizzically. "In a minute" her mother said. Two blue ribbons? "Those belonged to Janey, Phryne's sister." Jack's watch, the one he'd received during the war, the watch he wore every day except the days Phryne took it to the jeweler for a cleaning and a new strap. Jacqueline handed the watch to her mother but Elizabeth said "You hold it, please."

And then there were the notes: Phryne's to Jack and Jack's to Phryne. Some were loving and sweet, others were loving and sweetly provocative. Elizabeth smiled when she caught sight of a crinkly one in Jack's bundle, and she told Jacqueline about Jack and Phryne teaching her how to write secret messages using lemon juice for ink. Elizabeth didn't go through the notes again. She'd read them once; it was enough to know her grandparents loved each other very much. She didn't want to intrude on the thoughts dozing quietly on the folded stationery – untying the ribbons would wake them – so she gave them a gentle caress and told Jacqueline to read them when she had time to savor them. Elizabeth went back to the albums.

There were dozens of photos of Phryne and Jack through the years, almost all candid. They were always close, always with a hint of a smile on their faces and in their eyes. Sitting at the piano, her grandmother singing while her grandfather played, the ever-present pot of white orchids on the piano. She sometimes helped her grandfather water the orchid – carrying it to the kitchen, carefully wetting the bark in the pot but not letting any water touch the leaves, setting it on the counter to drain until it was dry enough to regain its place of honor in the parlor. On watering days her grandfather always pinched off a bloom and tucked it into a buttonhole of her grandmother's blouse or, if she had no buttons, swept her hair behind one ear and tucked it there. There was extra magic in the way they looked at each other on those days, grown-up magic she didn't understand. The first time she asked for an orchid blossom too her grandmother very gently explained every lady had her own special flower and it was time to choose one of her own. They took her outside and she trotted around the garden on still-chubby five year-old legs, calling 'this one' and 'this one' and 'this one' until her grandfather looked at her grandmother and they nodded at each other. 'This one' her grandfather called and he plucked a fragrant sweet pea and tucked it in her buttonhole. "Because you're our sweet pea" her grandmother smiled and pressed a kiss on Elizabeth's forehead.

Elizabeth slowly turned through the pages of the last album, still showing her daughter her life with her grandparents. Learning to ride her first bicycle, Jack holding one of the handlebars and the back of the seat while she got the feel of the pedals. Standing on the edge of the pool, terrified to jump in despite Jack's assurances he would catch her. In the next picture Phryne was standing next to her, holding her hand, promising to hold tight while they jumped in together. Sitting at her grandmother's dressing table, feeling very grown-up as Phryne tied new ribbons at the ends of her braids before a birthday lunch at the Windsor Hotel. As Elizabeth's life progressed Jack's hair grew greyer and greyer, Phryne's remaining resolutely black and sleek as she refused to succumb, teasing Jack that grey hair made him look distinguished and it was quite exciting to be involved with an older man. Usually Jack responded by pulling Phryne close and whispering something that made her laugh delightedly. Sometimes he just shook his head and smiled his tiny smile at her, his eyes never leaving hers.

And then there were no more pages.

But in the box there were loose photos of friends and relatives. Birthday parties with Collins and Robinson grandchildren. One of Elizabeth and her namesake, Dr. Mac, her once fiery red hair turned snowy white.

Elizabeth didn't remember some of the photos, but the last time she looked through the box must have been twenty years ago, maybe longer. She spread them out on the coffee table so she and Jacqueline could look at them together.

Bert standing by an old cab with a chamois in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Elizabeth in the driver's seat, pretending to drive. Cec and Alice and their large brood. There were several of Mr. Butler and his successor Kip, who was brought in when arthritis confounded Mr. Butler's efforts in the kitchen. An ancient photo of a short, heavy-set, well-dressed woman must be her grandmother's aunt, Prudence Stanley. Phryne, Jack, Dr. Mac in the parlor with an assortment of men and women Elizabeth didn't recognize at all. She flipped the photo; 'Twelfth Night 1930' was written on the back.

And then, there it was. The photograph of Jack that Jacqueline had asked about. It must have been in the box all these years.

...

Jacqueline had a great tear rolling down each cheek and she was absently rubbing the face of her great-grandfather's watch. Elizabeth handed her a tissue and got up from the couch. She closed the box and carefully stacked the albums. "Take the albums home with you. I'll make a list of who is in all of these loose photographs and we can go through everything with the kids onFriday night."

...

Jacqueline unlocked the front door, shooed the children in the house, and closed the door, again successfully thwarting the dog's fervent desire to explore the neighborhood unattended.

Once in the house, she switched to Friday night mode, telling the children to go through their backpacks now, please. Waiting until Sunday night was not an option.

She then dumped the armload of her possessions on her desk – keys, sunglasses, humongous handbag, mail. The doorbell rang and she greeted her mother who handed over a box once the door was closed.

Dinner? She called for pizza. Homework? Not tonight. It was Friday, after all. Baths? Hmmm. Yes. Both kids were pretty stinky, especially her son. Husband? Would be here soon. Stories? She and her mother had a box full of stories to tell them tonight. And tomorrow they were going to go see their great-great-grandparents.

-ooo-

_A/N: I know this story was unbelievably sentimental, but my excuse is it's what appeared on my screen when I started typing. There are untold numbers of grandfathers who have taken the place of fathers who could not be in their children's lives, whatever the reason. Grandmothers, too, of course, but this story is about a grandfather._


	2. Poppies

_Thank you so much for your wonderful comments on the first chapter. I thought this little story was finished but a lovely review of my other story mentioned making poppies for the 5000 Poppies Project and I was inspired to find out more about poppies. Somehow that morphed into thinking about an eight-year old just beginning to understand what it means to be part of a much larger family than just herself, her mother and father, and her sometimes annoying little brother._

_We're still in the present day._

-ooo-

Saturday morning and the teacher was in the crafts store. She spent some time studying green floral wire to determine which would be the sturdiest and some more time studying cards of little black buttons to determine which would be the easiest to maneuver the wire through. Then she chose several packages of thick red and purple paper. She walked halfway to the checkout and returned for a package of green paper but decided against it. "Leaves would be nice," she thought, "but let's keep this as simple as possible. We won't have that much time."

...

Monday morning and the children had just finished their history lesson. They'd already talked about Remembrance Day tomorrow and what it meant and how it was observed in Australia and around the world and the teacher thought they would enjoy watching a video she'd found about how animals were used to help armies in times of war. Now they had a few minutes before their lunch break and the teacher decided to let the children have a few minutes of relatively quiet vocal freedom.

"So, class, what did everyone do this weekend? Everyone say one thing and then it's the next person's turn. Starting here." She indicated the first desk in the first row to her right.

The answers were typical of eight-year olds, ranging from 'rode my bike' to 'played with my dog' to 'I don't remember' to 'went to the beach.' Then there was 'went to see my great-great grandpa.'

That was intriguing. She did some quick mental math. It was impossible anyone's great-great-grandfather was still alive.

"Tell me?" she asked.

"My mother has a picture of my great-great-grandpa Jack when he was in the army. So my whole family went to put flowers on his grave."

...

Monday afternoon, about an hour before the end of the school day, the teacher told her students to put all their books and papers away and clear their desks. "Who remembers which flowers are used for Remembrance Day?"

Almost every hand shot up in the air and almost every voice cried in unison. "Poppies."

"Who remembers what color?"

Again almost every hand shot up in the air, and again almost every voice answered in unison. "Red."

"What if I told you 'purple too'? Does anyone know what purple poppies are for?"

This time there were no hands at all, just a sea of eight year-old faces looking back at her.

"We use red poppies to remember our soldiers who were in wars. What about their helpers? What kind of helpers did the soldiers have?"

The room was silent while the children puzzled out her question. She gave them a minute.

Bingo. Hands started rising. "Animals!" "Horses!" "Camels!" "Dogs!" "Pigeons!" "A cat!" "A bear!" "A monkey!" "Donkeys!"

"Right! Animals helped. And we can remember the animals with purple poppies. Get your scissors out of your desks," she said as she handed out sheets of red and purple paper. "This is what we're going to do…"

...

When school let out for the day, all the other classes were surprised to see the front lawn of the school had been planted with red and purple paper poppies.

...

Monday evening Jacqueline looked on as her children went through their backpacks looking for forms she needed to sign, graded papers she needed to review, and anything else that she needed to know about.

Her daughter very carefully pulled some thick red and purple paper, a small bundle of long green wires, and a card of small black buttons out of her backpack.

That's an interesting assortment, Jacqueline thought. Hmmm. "What's all that for?"

"It's to make poppies. Red poppies for people who were in wars. Purple poppies for animals that were in wars. We made them at school today and then we stuck them in the grass in front of school. You know, because tomorrow's Remembrance Day."

Jacqueline picked up the colored paper. Petal'ed outlines were already traced on each sheet and a very small hole was already punched in the middle of each outline. The green wires already had a bend at one end. She knew how the teacher had spent part of her weekend.

"I asked the teacher if I could bring some home so I can make some for our yard. I told her about going to see great-great-grandpa Jack's grave. I want to make one for Jack and one for Phryne because they were in the war and one for daddy's great-grandpa and one for his horse because they died in the war and…"

Jacqueline felt a tiny prickle of tears. Sometimes they really did listen. Sometimes the important things you were trying to teach them really did stick, even if at the time it seemed they weren't paying quite as much attention as you thought they should.

"Sweetie, that's a wonderful idea. Do you want some help cutting out the flowers?"

"Umm. Yes. Because we have a _lot_ of poppies to make. Remember all those other people grandma told us about? Bert and Cec and..."

"Yes, I do remember. Is there something easy your brother can do?"

Her daughter considered that request. Her little brother was either going to bug her to let him help or he was going to just bug her. She might as well give him something to do. "He can put the buttons on the wires. And when daddy gets home he can twist the wires together to make the stems longer and then we all can stick them in the grass."

-ooo-

_A/N: The video the children watched is on the ABC's website. Search for 'War Animals.' I learned about purple poppies from the Australian War Animal Memorials' website._


	3. Letter from France

_The Western Front, 1917_

Just a few kilometers from his patch of battlefield Lance Corporal Jack Robinson furiously scrubbed his head and face and hands in a basin of water that was only tepid, but tepid was better than freezing cold. He shaved properly for the first time in days, grimacing as the blade of his razor pulled at the stubble on his chin. Oh, for a proper mug of shaving cream and a new razor. Never mind, it wasn't important. What was important was that he cleaned himself up. He was going to have his photograph taken and he needed to look his best for his wife. He dried his face and turned his attention to chipping chunks of dried mud off his boots and brushing dirt from his uniform. For good measure he rewrapped his puttees and rubbed his buttons with a grimy handkerchief. He combed his hair, grabbed his hat, and went outside to join the men in the photographer's queue. Some of them were laughing and joking, others were quiet, their faces turned up to the scant warmth of the autumn sun.

Jack was quiet, thinking about the letter he was going to write to his wife, knowing what he would write was entirely different to what he thought. He couldn't tell her what was he was experiencing – she would never be able to understand. He could barely understand it himself and he was living the insanity.

_I won't tell her I can barely remember the last time I saw trees that weren't blown to stumps or fields that weren't pitted with craters or churned into foot-deep mud. _

_I can't tell her where we've been – I can't think about it without wanting to scream. I won't tell her about the incessant rumble of artillery or the blinding explosions or the perpetual stink of cordite._

_I won't tell her the farmer and his family are among the few who haven't fled or been killed._

_I won't tell her there's not much to spend our wages on except booze or women or card games. I won't tell her how much I miss my books and music._

_I can't tell her I'm terrified I'll be caught in the wire and riddled with bullets or shot as I reach the top of the ladder or buried alive if the trench walls are blown apart._

_I won't tell her my feet are a mass of oozing blisters and when I get a chance to sit they pound with every heartbeat. I can't tell her chocolate is the only thing that takes the taste of fear out of my mouth for a few blessed seconds._

_I won't tell her when I finally do fall asleep I can't sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time or I can't remember what it's like to wake up from anything other than a nightmare. _

_I can't tell her what happened to the last man who used the watch and the whistle I've been given. Christ, how many poor bastards did he send over the top? Most of them were just boys, only 17 or 18 years old. Now that I have the watch and the whistle I feel like the angel of death. How many boys in this queue will I send over? _

_I won't tell her I barely know myself any more. I'm afraid she won't know me if I ever get home._

Something tugging snapped Jack from his reverie. The farmer's little granddaughter was looking up to him, one small hand fisted in the hem of his tunic, the other hand pointing at her grandfather waiting behind the camera. "_M'sieur? Grand-père dit que c'est votre tour, m'sieur_."

-ooo-

Rosie Robinson's fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope. It had been weeks since a letter from Jack had come through and she had been frantic. If they had children she could have busied herself with their care and distracted herself from the troublesome thoughts crowding her brain. But she wasn't pregnant when Jack shipped out and she sometimes brooded and fretted in their little cottage. She pulled a photograph and sheet of flimsy paper from the envelope and sat down to read his letter. It was a _real_ letter, on clean paper, written all in one go instead of in bits and pieces over a period of days.

_My darling Rosie,_

_I finally have a chance to write more than just a few lines to you. We have been rotated off the front lines for a week or two. We are in a pretty little town with lots of farms and fruit trees. I won't tell you exactly where we are, since the censors will black it out if I do, but the air smells clean and there's a hint someone is cooking a chicken. It must be long past its laying prime. _

_An old farmer has set up a make-shift photography studio in his garden and almost all the men are having their photograph taken. I will say the French citizenry has quite an entrepreneurial streak. The fields are harvested and I suppose they need to make as much money as they can however they can while they wait for planting time. We provide willing customers, judging from the length of the queues outside the farmhouse every day. The farmer and his wife have a little granddaughter who amuses the men as they wait. _

_I decided to join them so you could see I'm still your Jack. A little the worse for wear perhaps but I think of you every minute and I can't wait to be back home with you. _

_I've been promoted to Lance Corporal. I'm not sure why; it's probably because I was the oldest of us left after an unexpected skirmish several days ago. _

_Thank you for the new socks and the chocolate. I put one pair of the socks on as soon as I could and I am rationing the chocolate so it lasts as long as possible. My men and I are sleeping in a barn while we are here on rotation. It's lovely to have a real roof over our heads and soft hay under our backs at night. Give my love to everyone and remember how much I love you. _

_Jack_

It was exactly like all of his letters, telling her what and how he was doing, including little anecdotes, thanking her for whatever she sent him last. He sounded like himself. She was so relieved – she had heard whispers and rumors other husbands weren't coping well.

Rosie moved the photographs on top of his bookcase to make room for this new one. She ran her fingers over the spines of his books and sighed. If he had spent less time with work and books and music before he left she would have at least one toddler of her own to look after now. Never mind. When Jack came home they _would_ add photos of their own children to the mix of nieces and nephews.

She studied the photograph of her husband, committing this latest version of him to memory. He had a chevron on the right sleeve of his uniform now and a watch she didn't recognize on his left wrist but otherwise he looked exactly the same as he always did. A little tired, perhaps.

-ooo-

_A/N: In the photograph Jack has a single chevron on his right sleeve that denotes his rank as Lance Corporal. _

_Whistles were used to alert men that the time to 'go over the top' was NOW. The high, clear tone could be heard through the trenches and over the sound of shelling._

_Wristwatches came into widespread production and use at the beginning of the war because it was quicker and easier to glance at a wrist than to fish a watch out of a pocket. Wristwatches were crucial in coordinating "creeping" or "walking" barrages. A creeping barrage involved artillery fire moving forward in stages, so that the shells were falling just ahead of the advancing infantry and the defenders did not have time to emerge from their trenches. This strategy required precise, coordinated timing between the artillery and the infantry. If the infantry advanced too soon they would be killed by their own artillery. _

_At the start of the war mostly officers wore wristwatches. Within a couple of years many men of all ranks wore them, either buying their own or 'inheriting' one from a deceased comrade. Towards the end of the war they were standard issue for many ranks._

_I can't prove that a Lance Corporal ever blew the whistle to send men from their trench over the top. Usually only officers (of which lieutenants are the lowest rank) performed this task. However, it's possible that if a unit's ranks were so decimated that there were no junior officers left the ranking officer would have delegated the duty to a trusted Lance Corporal. _

_Thanks for tolerating the mini history lesson. I'm humbled by how much I didn't know about the Great War before I wrote the first two chapters and how much I still don't know a full year later, despite all the reading and research I've done, and it's important that I get things as right as I can.._

_If you're interested in other pieces I've written about the MFMM characters and the Great War, namely its effects, there are my Long Long Trail, For Buffalo Bill, and Lemon Tart stories. I also touch on these issues in Chapters 3, 11 and 17 in Spell of the Fragment and chapters 5 and 6 of Family Photos._


End file.
